The Texan

by J. T. Edson

  “Señor! I have need of your help, señor,” a whining voice said from outside the door. It was the voice of a poor peasant, requesting help from an important official, “My wife beats me and has driven me from my home,”

  Sanchos bellowed a curse back: “Vamos, you swine! How dare you disturb your Alcade when he is resting, for such a small thing”

  “She is not small, señor. She is very big and fat! Also, she hits me with a broom, señor.”

  Sanchos came off his couch and caught up the silver engraved riding-quirt from the desk. It was a present from Peraro and very handy in quelling his peons, when they became annoying. He crossed the room and flung open the door, ready to inflict another beating upon this whining peon. However, he could see nothing and stepped out of the doorway. A hand shot out of the blackness, gripped Sanchos’ shirt and hauled him away from the light. The hand then gripped the greasy black hair and dragged the head back. A razor-sharp knife rested against Sanchos’ fat throat.

  “Silence, or I will remove your head.” The voice was still speaking in Spanish but was now low, hard and savage.

  The Alcalde was an arrant coward and went limp, his legs shaking under him as he croaked, “Please señor, do not do this evil thing.”

  “All right, but we will take a walk from this place. We will walk as friends and, when we pass anyone, you will remain silent. If you wish to shout a warning to them, you may. But, if you do, the mission bells will toil requiem and you will hot be hearing them.”

  Sanchos was blubbering with fear as he walked out and along the street. The quirt was removed from his sweating and tight-clenched hand by this savage-talking, yet silent-moving stranger. In fact, there were times when Sanchos wondered if he was still escorted, or if the man from the night was just a figment of his tequila-loaded imagination. He was coming to a well-lit house, from which sounded shouts and laughter. For a brief instant, he considered shouting for help; then something sharp pricked through his shirt, in a gentle warning to him.

  Not a word was spoken as they passed through the houses and out into the open range country. Sanchos shuddered, wondering why this man by his side wanted him—and what the reason he had for bringing so important a friend of Ramon Peraro away from the safety of Piente Town?

  “We will speak softly,” the voice went on in his ear, “How many men know of the gringo girl?”

  Sanchos gulped; he wondered if the man was one of the other gang members who’d found out about the double-cross.

  “Peraro, Perez and I,” he replied. “Don Ramon held a fiesta and a grande baile on the day he brought her into town! None know she is held at his house.”

  The Ysabel Kid nodded to himself, his suspicion confirmed. Peraro was aiming to double-cross his other men on this kidnapping. That made things some easier; the bandit leader could hardly call on his men for help, without admitting he was trying to do them down.

  A low snort came from the blackness of the woods, and Sanchos almost screamed as a huge white stallion loomed from the darkness. The Kid forced Sanchos nearer and hissed, “I am el Cabrito. You guessed that?” It was satisfying to see that, even after an absence of several years, his name still held its magic below the border. “You know my horse? He will watch you and, if you try to escape, will kill you. Where is the girl, and who guards her?”

  “At Don Ramon’s house—and, tonight, he guards her.”

  “And Perez?”

  “He drinks at the house of Rosita Phillipe. He is very angry, for men have left town when they should not.”

  The Alcade felt his hands pulled behind him and a cord passed round them. He realised that, to perform the tying, his captor must no longer be holding a drawn weapon. This gave him comfort, for he was not a fighting man. Not for him the sudden attack which would render his captor helpless. He knew any attempt at a sudden attack would meet with an even more sudden, and extremely painful, defence.

  The Ysabel Kid did a very good job of tying the Alcade, bringing the fat man down hard to the ground and leaving him lying there helpless. He stepped back and looked over his handiwork, then remarked:

  “I leave you now, senor Pray that no one comes to your aid. If they do, you will die. My horse will see to that.”

  Sanchos shuddered and mumbled incoherently through the gag the Kid had forced between his lips. He rolled on to his back and twisted his neck round. The big stallion loomed up in the darkness, but there was no sign of the Ysabel Kid. He was gone in complete silence.

  On his way back to town, the Kid wondered if he could get into the Peraro place and get the girl out without fooling about any more. He doubted it; Ramon Peraro was no fool and kept efficient sentries around his place; he also kept a couple of very fierce dogs in the grounds. One mistake there, and the girl would die a painful death. That was Peraro’s way. If the ransom was paid, he returned his captive promptly unharmed and usually with a present or two. If there was any attempt at rescue, the captive was killed without any mercy. It was by sticking to this code that Peraro obtained payment whenever he held anyone to ransom.

  The Ysabel Kid knew that, and so did Russel.

  So this time the Kid’s direction was not towards a house, but to the rear of the Peraro cantina. In the stable at the back was Peraro’s black stallion, held there under constant guard, ready for his use. This time the Kid’s knife was out and ready. It boded ill for any man who crossed his path, for the Kid had little respect for human life. Less when opposed by these savage, almost inhuman killers who rode for Peraro. He was willing to kill if need be, and only kept the Alcade alive for use as a hostage. The Kid intended to play the game as Peraro wanted; if the bandit kept his side of it, so would Loncey Dalton Ysabel.

  The guard at the stable door was asleep, lying flat on the ground, head resting against the wall. The Kid moved closer, silently, the knife held hip-high and ready to use. He knew the man would be a light sleeper; to sleep while guarding the horse he would need to be. If Peraro found him asleep, the sentry would most likely wake up in a far hotter climate.

  The sentry’s eyes opened and he started to come up, hand fanning towards his belt. The Kid lunged in, his foot driving up in between the man’s legs, stifling with numbing agony the cry he was about to give. Then the bowie knife made a flicker of silver in the darkness, its point biting into flesh and the razor-edge cutting as it enlarged the opening. The body heaved convulsively, a low moan bubbling through the lips. Then it was still.

  The Kid came up to his feet, rubbed the blade of his knife clean on the man’s serape. He heard footsteps approaching, and faded into the blackness, hugging the side of the shed.

  “Jose, you dog!” a voice grated. “Where are you?”

  The Kid stood silent, heart beating faster and the tension mounting in him. He knew that voice. Pedro Perez was coming towards him.

  A stocky wide-shouldered man came out of the blackness, staggering slightly like he’d taken too much tequila. This did not fool the kid, for Perez had a reputation of being more dangerous drunk than sober. Then the Kid remembered that, at night, either Peraro or Perez always checked on the sentries guarding the horse.

  Perez halted and looked down at the still form on the ground. He came closer and snarled: “So. I’ve caught you asleep at last, have I? Do you think, because you are a friend of Santovel, that you will escape punishment?”

  Reeling forward, Perez smashed a kick into the still shape on the ground. Then he bent over and put his hand down. He must have placed it right on the wound, for he jerked it back with a muffled curse. Too late, he heard a soft sound and started to straighten up. The Kid moved forward and, having substituted his Dragoon gun for the knife, brought it down on to Perez’s head, dropping the man as if he’d been poleaxed.

  Opening the stable door, the Kid dragged Perez in. A small lantern was burning in the building and, in the light, the Kid saw Peraro’s black stallion in a stall. A second horse was in another stall. The Kid glanced at it, then ignored it—until he remembered he wou
ld need a mount for the Alcalde.

  Throwing a saddle on the black, the Kid worked fast. He fastened Perez’s hands and feet together, then checked to make sure there was no danger of the man recovering before they left town. With a strength that seemed out of keeping with his lithe figure, the Kid hoisted Perez across the saddle and lashed him there. The Mexican would be uncomfortable, but the Kid was not worried about that. In his time, Perez had made more than one man and women even less comfortable, so he could expect little pity from the Ysabel Kid.

  With the second horse saddled, the Kid took time out to write a note to Peraro. He led the two horses out into the night and, taking the knife from the dead guard’s belt, pinned the paper to the door, leaving Perez’s guns and the Alcalde’s quirt lying under it. Then he mounted the second horse and, leading the black, rode out of the town. He kept to the main street and rode in plain view of everyone who might be looking—for, in a town like Piente, travellers often waited until the dark hours before starting a journey, but they did not sneak out by the back ways. To do so would invite closer inspection than a bold ride out through the main street.

  At this time of the morning, the Kid guessed most people would be either drunk, or asleep, and he was not unduly bothered when he got clear of the town. He did not waste any time in idle speculation of his luck. Collecting the still terrified Alcalde, he pushed on north to the border, crossing it as dawn broke the sky. This time, he pushed into the deep brush country again, riding along a narrow trail which brought curses of pain from the now-conscious Perez.

  The white stallion stopped and the Ysabel Kid’s old Dragoon gun slid into his hand. “Come on out!” he said.

  “Danged if that hoss ain’t part hound-dawg, the way he smells out a man!” McKie replied, as he stepped from the bush.

  The Kid accepted this tribute to his stallion’s prowess, and then said: “How did you figure on this place?”

  “Know you. I figgered you’d come here as being the best place to handle any business.”

  The old-timer turned and walked back by the way he’d come, and the Ysabel Kid followed him. They came to a clearing, or rather a small basin in the bush country; the slopes were gentle and the bottom about a hundred yards square. All round the basin, except for the two openings, one each side, the scrub and bush were thick and all but impenetrable for a man. However, they did not stay in the clearing, but rode straight across and up the other side. Then the Kid swung down from his white and helped McKie get Perez down from the horse and fasten him to a tree. The old-timer gripped Perez’s nose and held it until his mouth opened, then inserted a bandana as a gag. The Alcalde was not fastened nor gagged; there was little danger from him in either way. He was too scared to attempt yelling warnings; and, with bare feet, not even a buck Apache could walk through this thorn bush country.

  The Kid was not finished yet. He took McKie’s horse as being fresher than the others and turned, his white loose to forage. Mounting, he looked down at McKie. “I’m just heading back to the ford, to wait. I want to see if Peraro is followed.”

  “You don’t allow he’ll come alone?” McKie scoffed.

  “Sure, he will. None of the others in his bunch know he’s got the girl. But he just might be followed. Santovel and some of the others don’t like the way he’s been doing things.”

  The Kid took a roundabout route through the bush and reached the ford from a different direction. He hid the horse, praying that it would keep quiet. Then, with his rifle in his hands, he slipped into the bush and lay concealed, waiting.

  Ramon Peraro looked around the now-silent cantina with disgust. His men were all drunkenly asleep, lying on the floor, or across the tables. He rose and crossed the room, a tall, lithe man wearing expensive, silver-decorated clothes and belting a silver-mounted Colt in an ornate holster at his right side and an ivory-handled finely-chased knife at the left. His face was fattening now, but still handsome, the eyes hard and cold.

  He was almost at the door, meaning to go to his room, when he realised that Perez was not back from inspecting the horse. A suspicion came to him. Perez had taken a fancy to the gringo girl and might be with her, trying to force his attentions upon her. Peraro was not averse to such things— and, if the ransom was not paid, would have given his consent—but he would not allow it before the appointed time of payment came round.

  He stamped out of the cantina. Then he stopped, staring at the open stable door and the still shape illuminated by the lamp. Anger filled him that a member of his gang would so flout his authority by sleeping, when he should be guarding. Peraro crosed the space fast; he was still some distance away, when he realised that the guard must be dead. He knew the man as an inveterate sleeper on duty; but one who could sleep so lightly that approaching him and catching him were next to impossible.

  Stepping over the body as of no consequence, Peraro entered the stable and a savage curse broke from his lips. The two stalls were empty; both his prized black and another good horse he’d stolen recently had gone. Peraro spun round on his heel, intending to rouse his men and scour the country around for the thief. Then he saw the guns and quirt on the floor and the knife-pinned message on the door. With a savage hand, he tore the paper down and held it in the light, so that he could read it.

  “Peraro,”—the writing was sprawling and awkward—“I am writing this in English so none of your bunch can read it, if they find it first. Bring the gringo girl across the Rio Grande to the place where Tortilla used to meet the arms-seller. I have Perez, the Alcalde and your two hosses. A fair swap.”

  There was no signature, but Peraro had not been expecting one. He stood silently in the night, an angry snarl on his lips. Then, slowly, he took out a match and lit it, burning the paper and crumbling the ashes. There was no doubt about one thing: he must take the girl back. The gang were getting restless—and, already, Santovel was growing too big for his breeches. Without Perez to back him, Peraro knew he could not long hold down the other members of the gang. Nor could he handle the ransom of the girl alone; and, if the gang discovered her, they would demand revenge.

  It was still dark enough for him to collect the girl and get her out of town without being seen. He went to his house and woke the Indian woman who was lying on the floor, telling her to collect two horses for him. Then he went upstairs and knocked on a door. After knocking twice, he heard sounds of a bed creaking and a female voice asked, in English: “Who is it?”

  “Peraro, señora. Prepare yourself to leave.”

  The door opened and a pretty, freckled faced girl with long red hair looked out. She was sleepy-eyed and yawned. She looked at him dazedly. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “You are free to go. I will escort you to a place where a friend will be waiting to take you home.”

  It took a moment or two for this to sink in. Then she opened the door fully. She was wearing a rumpled blouse and divided skirt just as she’d worn when caught; for Mavis Handle had not undressed since she was first brought there. She was a sensible girl and knew that, although she’d been treated well enough and respectfully by her captors, they were two of the most dangerous men in Mexico. All too well she knew that the kindness would end abruptly enough if she disobeyed them in any way.

  “Has Uncle Philo paid?” she asked.

  “He has sent for you.”

  “If he’s paid, I’ll bet he’s died of heart failure,” the girl stated. “He was never so fond of me, he’d pay to get me back again.”

  “Come, please!” Peraro was getting impatient.

  The Indian woman was waiting with two saddled horses when Peraro and Mavis went downstairs. They collected the horses and rode out of town, heading for the Rio Grande and the same smuggler-crossing the Ysabel Kid had used earlier on. Peraro ordered the girl to keep quiet until they were well away from town. However, once they were clear, he allowed her to talk. The sun was coming up now, and, as they rode along in the fast-coming daylight, Mavis asked:

  “You got your mon
ey?”

  “You are free, are you not, señora. Your uncle would have been wise to pay.”

  The girl smiled and shook her head; she wondered why he was showing so much caution as he rode along.

  “My Uncle Philo would hardly pay to get me back—not under the present circumstances. He’s too fond of the dollar; and there is another reason he would rather I didn’t come back,” she replied. “I thought he would rather let me die than pay.”

  Peraro glanced sideways at the girl. “That was not what Russel told me when he came to make the arrangements for kidnapping you.”

  “Russel?” she frowned. “Who is this Russel?”

  “A border thief, not one of the best. It was he who set you up for this.” Peraro knew that he could never let the girl and her rescuer live, and so talked to her. “I was never really happy about it. When I offered him too small a sum for his share, he accepted it without argument.”

  The girl did not know anyone called Russel and so did not connect the name with her uncle. She watched the Mexican as he lapsed into silence, then wondered why he was telling her all this.

  They reached the Rio Grande and crossed by the ford; the girl was a good rider, and made the crossing with ease. She followed Peraro on to the other bank and, although they passed within a few feet of him, neither knew they had a watcher.

  The Ysabel Kid watched them go by; he could have dropped Peraro there and then, but would not do such a thing. If Peraro played fair, so would the Ysabel Kid.

  The Kid stayed on, lying under the bush and watching the river for a time; he was trying to gauge it correctly to arrive at the basin before Peraro brought the girl there! When he was satisfied that Peraro really was alone, the Kid turned back and collected his horse. He put his spurs to work and let the animal gallop. He rode like a centaur through the bush country and along the narrow, winding trail, coming to a halt at the top of the basin.